


Pens, Pencils and Paint.

by han_rawr



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Art, F/M, Fluff, paint, possibly some smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:02:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/han_rawr/pseuds/han_rawr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If a boy could ever be described as pretty, it would be him. The one that sits in my row, one from the back and three seats over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of a short fanfic I've been writing, I really hope you'll like it!

If a boy could ever be described as pretty, it would be him. The one that sits in my row, one from the back and three seats over. It is a treasured moment when he lifts his head from the scrap book he protectively carries around, rarely taking a break from elegantly scrawling over the pages. There are odd occasions when I pass him in the corridor, a rucksack strapped to his back and book crammed underarm. I sigh in discontent, he doesn’t notice me. But then I fear most people just float by in his peripheral vision, shapes that fail to build any kind of solid image. He keeps few friends, only a couple that are blessed to be within his company. I long to talk to him, but I fear rejection. 

I think he likes to draw. What, I do not know. But it captures his entire attention. And I selfishly wish that it was me he so intently cares for. The curve of his red lips is continually trapped between his teeth in furious concentration. And what beautiful lips they are, full and heart shaped, other mouths do not hold anything in comparison. Like a cupid’s bow. I imagine it would only take one kiss, one kiss to fall in love with the boy possessing a shock of chestnut curls that flick and camber upon his head. There are times, unfortunate times when the glide of the pencil does not please him. It is in these moments when fingers will tease out the soft curls, straightening his fringe into an unintentional quiff as his brow furrows and he attempts to right the mistakes made on the paper. It twinges at my chest to see him disapproving of his own work, but I love to see his hair pushed back, to see his face.

I had never seen that shade of green before, not until that first day of History class. Clumsy footsteps had led him along the path of bumping into my chair. I didn’t get an apology, instead it was a flash of wide forest eyes. Maybe that was why he neglected the spare desk to my right, opting for a couple of seats over. He was embarrassed. 

***

We’re sat outside on the grass in the park running alongside the college building. Most students prefer to be out in the open at lunch, even though it’s a bit nippy, the breeze is welcoming after being cooped up inside for lessons. The surrounding grass is beginning to prickle, especially wear the rugby team practice for matches.  
I place another crisp into my mouth, Beth then handing the shared bag to Alex. The conversation for the past ten minutes has been filled with ponderings of what to give siblings for Christmas. Organisation is one of Beth’s strong attributes, this perhaps an explanation for why this discussion is taking place when the leaves on the tress have only just begun to transform in colour. It’s my favourite time of year, the path leading up to the entrance of college is lined with trunks that appear to be ablaze with fiery reds, browns, and oranges. 

I can see him. He’s with his friends. And apparently he’s heard my silent prayers for him to come closer so I can admire him without the obstruction of other students. His dark crown of curls doesn’t look out of place in these autumn months. To challenge the cooling wind he wears a warm looking parker to match the colour of his eyes. 

“Who are you so intently staring at?” Beth laughs.

I’ve been staring? I’d hoped my observation to be more covert. But from the look on my friends’ faces I’ve failed in my attempt at casual scanning. 

“Have you ever spoken to him before?” I blurt out, unsure of what else to say. 

My question lingers for an uncertain moment. Maybe they do not know the individual I am enquiring, but I do not want to make my ponderings known by pointing him out.

“The weird one?” 

I can tell by Alex’s scrunched nose that she’s instantly judging him. And granted, his image is far from conventional, but I wouldn’t have categorised him so harshly. It’s probably the metal in his ears. The rings that frame the small flesh holes in his lobes. And I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of tattoo a few weeks back. The radiators in our classroom were broken, the heat almost sweltering despite the chill from outside. I’d removed my cardigan early on in the lesson, trying to regulate my temperature. He’d had the same idea, catching hold of his jumper from the back of his neck and pulling it up. In the heavenly seconds that followed, it was all I could do to not fall off my chair as the fabric of his t-shirt rode up with the jumper. It was on that day that I’d been blessed with a fleeting glance to his tummy, part of his chest, small running patterns of ink caressing his skin and a bleeding lip. I’d bumped my head on the desk in my endeavour to witness the in-part removal of his clothes and bitten through my lower lip. It was worth it. 

“He’s not weird.” I stumble to his defence.

It was a mistake. Two pairs of eyes are brightening, glittering with the promise of my torture. 

“Oooo,” Beth teases, “Belle, you like him.”

I hate it when they do this. I’d told them about the employee I thought was attractive in Costa; the one with the cute smile and brown eyes. They’d all but asked him out for me in the few visits we made afterwards and I found it embarrassing to say the least. It was almost impossible to hang out at the coffee shop without them giggling and encouraging me to talk to him. I think he’s gone away to university now, that’s what I’m hoping anyway. There is a part of me that believes he couldn’t stand the girlish laughter any longer and up and quit to find a new job. I pray that isn’t the case. 

“Do you fancy him?” Alex questions me further. 

I spin my body slightly to witness the conversation taking place between the curly haired boy and his friends. I’d thought the coffee guy was cute, but that was until I’d seen my sketching boy. He blew all the others out of the water. 

“I think he’s absolutely beautiful.”

***

“We’ve got to go. Beth needs to hand in that form before class and I’ve got to talk to Mike about my coursework.”

The roll to Alex’s eyes say it all. I’d never met Mike, her teacher, but he sounded like bit of a conceited arse. There were very few girls who selected Geology as an A-Level, and it was assumed that was because females weren’t suited to that kind of practical, earth science. Sexist comments were thrown around in the class, to which the favoured boys thought were hilarious. Alex and the handful of girls had done well to stand their ground but I knew she found it frustrating beyond belief. I desperately hoped that the new class of first years would be a large group of strong, opinionated females, who would ask questions at every opportunity they got. That would shove a spanner in the works.

History on the hand was a good mix of boys and girls, there never seemed to be one dominating sex which proved a success in drawing ideas together and working in groups. 

“Ok, see you later.” I smile.

I watch as they walk away together across the expanse of green carpeted grass. He’s still where my eyes left him, talking to his friends. I try to stand as gracefully as possible, working up the courage to walk past him and over to the base of another tree. The tree I use as a reading spot. I collect the neglected crisp packet, shoving it into the depths of my bag to dispose of later. 

I feel a little disappointed when I go by unnoticed. I don’t really know what I was expecting, it’s not like he’s given much attention or interest to me before. My chest rises to inhale and heavily exhale in a defeated sigh. It definitely wasn’t my intention to exude the pathetic yearning school girl image, but I fear that is what I have become. And all because of him. 

My body slumps into a leaning position, sliding down the rough trunk to sit. I rummage within my rucksack for the book I have been reading for the past couple of days. Once produced, my fingers dance between pages, seeking out the small paper bookmark I keep which likes to hide and nestle closely to the spine.  
I’m glad I’ve worn boots today, my toes may have fallen off otherwise. I jest with the idea of putting my hood up, an extra blockade against the wind. It’s a good idea and I instantly feel more comfortable as the soft fury lining soothes the redness my ears are accommodating. The length of my hair flutters, tickling at my face and uncovered expanses of neck.  
A few pages are skimmed before the need builds up inside. I have to turn my head 90 degrees to watch him. But as I do I become distracted by the swaying of alight branches in canopy above his head. Just one. One leaf swirls, curling and floating in the air in its descent towards earth. It’s a pretty flutter of warm orange, like an ember from a crackling fire. He’s watching it too. But his eyes never meet the ground to witness it make gentle impact. They’re on me. And I don’t know what to do. It becomes apparent that no amount of swallowing will cure the dryness in my throat. And I desperately wish to banish the flush that has crept up to my cheeks. But luckily any possible interaction is taken from my control.

He bends to the leaf at his feet, scooping it up and delicately cradling it as he opens his prised scrapbook. It is safely tucked away in the pages, and I wonder what it will be used for. A keepsake maybe, but why this day, what significance does it have?

The tree creaks and rocks in the wind, almost morning at the loss of another cherished leaf. He carries it away in the book, returning to the shelter of the college building with his friends. I choose to remain outside for a while, the coolness in the air doesn’t bother me, comfortable with sitting and immersing myself in the story. But all too soon it is time for me to attend my lesson. At least I’ll get to see him again. He makes the sometimes dreary historical topics much more bearable. 

***

Today George is ill. Although I do not wish him to be unwell, he is a large boy, his body is one of the two between me and my penned beauty. On a normal day I have to lean my body forward, unnaturally laying my head nearly on the desk to catch a fleeting glance around George. I pretend to attentively write notes on dates that hold historical importance only to watch the boy scratch away at his page. But today that is not necessary. He is within my view, determined eyes fixated on the images carved out by his own pencil.  
I like to watch him work. His hands are almost always stained in ink and I imagine him not bothering to scrub the dark shades printed onto his skin. There really isn’t much point, they will be blemished tomorrow and the next day, for as long as he sketches and scribes. Some days I wish to be invisible, to cautiously observe the words he formulates into sentences, matching the scribble of pencil. 

“Kelly, switch seats with Annabelle.” 

Those are the words my class hears, a command from the teacher to relieve us all of the chatter Kelly has caused. But they hold a different meaning to me. She occupies the seat next to him. Kelly was so lucky to find that spare seat at the start, the one we were assigned to for the rest of the year. While I mull over these thoughts in my mind she has come to stand behind me. Her throat is cleared, a polite way of telling me to shift.

I gather my belongings, dragging my rucksack along the grey lino flooring to the seat which has been recently vacated. I sit quickly, not wanting to hold up the lesson any longer. The blue plastic chairs are torture on my body, refusing to provide any comfort. Perhaps that is their purpose, to force students into compliantly sitting up straight, to encourage attentiveness in class. But in reality it does little for the young people surrounding me, most either leant fully forward onto their individual desks or slouched back with their feet outstretched. 

His foot taps against the table leg, something I would have ignored if it were George. But it’s not, and I become distracted as the scuffed white converse continue to lightly beat. The quiet noise induces wonder at the thought of him reciting a song in his head, allowing it to consume his body, so much so that it leaks out into a physical action.  
The teacher is either oblivious or unconcerned by the sound and she continues to dictate a past event. I witness the permanent marker glide over the white board, different colours for differing importance. It’s increasingly difficult to concentrate. He is there beside me and if I listen closely enough I can hear the puffs of air he exhales onto his page. I fight the urge to subtly turn to him, but soon it’s too much for me to bear and I have to see him. 

My eyes start at his feet before scanning the impossible length of his jean clad legs. Part of him is hidden behind the desk, but I don’t mind. The thick knit of his navy jumper conjures images of rainy days, hot chocolate and cuddles on the sofa. I bet he has good cuddling arms, ones that could create a love bond around your body, never to let you go. The collar of a plaid shirt frames the base of his neck. He sports a hat today. He must have retrieved it from his locker before class. I haven’t seen him in one before, not a beanie anyway. He’d worn a snapback in the warmer months, and I about collapsed upon walking into the classroom that day. But now the majority of his soft looking hair is covered, concealed under the black material. However, the flicks that escape over his forehead are evidence that his curls remain. 

As I silently assess in day-dream what it would feel like to tangle my fingers through his hair, I have neglected to notice the forest eyes now focused on me. He stares, big eyes shining in possible confusion at the girl who was silly enough to get caught in her calculating gaze. I feel my cheeks bright with heat as I hastily turn my attention to the blank page in front of me. Embarrassment. I sink a little lower in my seat, my heart with it, unsure of how to handle the situation. I will my dirty blonde hair to curtain and close around me. 

I’m without knowledge of the time passing before I steal another glance to my left. He’s gone back to his pencil and paper. My tense muscles ease the strain they were once burdened with but this time my curiosity floats to what is being drawn on the canvas. I can only describe it as hectic. The grey colouring of the pencil prints astoundingly vibrant images, despite the dull shade. People, busy people, individuals unaware they are being trapped and sketched onto pages within a scrapbook. Landscapes, some beautiful, others desolate, unloved. And there are images drawn in which I am unsure of their origin or meaning, perhaps an insight into the workings of his wonderful mind. 

My exploration if short lived as an arm scoops protectively around his work. Pages are flicked away until a blank canvas is revealed in the book, a completely new one, nothing to see or admire. He thought I was intruding. It wasn’t my intention. Guilt presses heavy in my chest and I unwillingly bombard my mind of possible thoughts he may be having.  
Why is she being so nosey? What’s wrong with her? She must be a bit weird. I wish I could get away from her.

I am called upon with a question but I don’t have the answer because I wasn’t paying attention, not to the goings-on of the academic lesson anyway. When it comes time to leave I prolong the effort of packing away. Soon the class has filtered out and I’m left with the boy. It always takes him a little while to gather his belongings. 

I stand before his desk without thinking, frightened that I may have chickened out.

“I-I wasn’t prying..” He glances up, ceasing the movement of his hands. “It wasn’t my intention…” My ability to speak coherently seems to have scrabbled around the maze of desks, escaped out the window and made a dash across the college playing field. The only words I can successfully speak are “I’m sorry”, before I make a speedy exit out the door.

***

I sit in my usual seat, accustomed to the afternoon sun that glints through the broken blinds drawn across the window. It feels strange to be back in this position, and I long to eliminate the distance between myself and the sketching boy. But I know he wouldn’t want me there, not after what happened a couple of days prior. He probably thinks I’m lacking in any self-awareness or intelligence. The only first impression I had to make on him and it was a babbling mess of words. 

Regardless of my preoccupied ponderings I begin to set my things out for class as more students descend on the learning space. Habits can sometimes be a nuisance, my forgetful nature rendering me ill prepared for the lesson and without an instrument to write with. The pen which usually inhabits the spine of my notebook has either been misplaced or forgotten, something which is a regular occurrence. I may have to ask George for one. However, as my fingers blindly descend into the depths of my rucksack, I become aware of the pencil laid upon the surface of my desk.

It has been chewed at the end, the black and yellow paint flaking away from the wood. The pencil stands shorter than a new one, its height evidence of constant use and obvious sharpening. My mind sparks possible reasons for a pencil to find its way to my desk, another forgetful student perhaps, an assumption that it was mine to begin with. But these appear unreasonable as the owner of this pencil is now staring at me from three seats over and one row from the back. 

If it were possible for your heart to hammer out of your chest, mine would have fought its way to freedom and taken flight. His pencil. I hold his pretty eye contact long enough to see the soft curve of his pink lips. He’s smiling at me. At me. 

I reciprocate the gesture his mouth makes and his eyes sparkle before setting them to work at aiding in his drawing. My heart and mind have soared so high that it takes a couple of minutes to drag them back to Earth and focus on the lesson. I take his pencil in hand and begin to scribe the teacher’s words. It’s only then that I realise he must have noticed me before, before I had spoken to him. How did he know that I would forget my pen if not have witnessed my ill prepared nature in times already passed?

I sit through the lesson with a warm glow radiating, and will myself not to adorn the silly grin for any longer. My right hand nervously twiddles the pencil between my fingers, continuously glancing to the clock and the countdown that ticks by in my head. 

28 minutes until the end of lesson.

21 minutes until I travel the short distance to his desk.

14 minutes until I try to talk to him. 

2 minutes and we finish early. 

The class is reminded of the homework due in the next couple of days, the prompt met with a universal groan. Except for me. I’d had that work completed a short time after it was handed out. My worries aren’t centred around if I will get it in on time or not. The concern lies with what words I’m going to formulate in order to speak to him. 

I pack away swiftly and what seems like seconds later I’m up and out of my chair.

“Thank you.”

It’s a good solid start. I hold the pencil out between us and I watch as his vision drifts from the object to my face. 

“You can keep it, I’ve got a lot more.” 

His tone is soft and low humming. I’ve heard him speak briefly before, but it wasn’t directly to me; and I’m secretly thankful for his casual nature, I didn’t want to give it back. 

“I’m Annabelle.” 

“I know.” 

And there it is again, his close-lipped smile, but this time it encompasses more of his features, stamping a dimple into his cheek. The last time I came this close into his personal space, it had been somewhat of frantic fluster. But as I stand to the side of his cluttered desk, I carry more confidence to study his physical characteristics.  
There is a freckle spotted perfectly to the side of his mouth. A thick sweep of dark lashes frame his eyes, and I humour myself with the thought of them creating a light breeze when he blinks. When he opens his mouth to communicate further I noticed how straight and aligned his teeth are. He must have a beautiful smile.

“I’m Harry.”

He has a small nick in the form of a scar to the right under the curve of his lips. The endearing mark provokes intrigue, but I ponder no further because he’s looking at me to speak. 

“It’s nice to…meet you,” I say.

It’s a silly comment because we have been in the same class for the past two years. But it is only now that we are properly acknowledging each other. It makes me feel exposed, so close. I’ve wanted this for so long. My vision strays to his book, unable to remain united in our intimate eye contact. 

“That’s pretty,” I compliment, willing him to divide his attention.

It appears to be a complex tattoo design, intricate and close weaving. He couldn’t have drawn that. Surely not. I don’t have time to ask him though because my geography teacher is leaning into the door frame. Her smile is wide, and I know she wants something, probably my help at the open evening next week.

“Annabelle, can I talk to you?”

“Of course,” I oblige.

She lingers, a sign that the enquiry is going to take place immediately and my presence is needed elsewhere, much to my dismay. I inform Harry, even though he’s sat here and he’s heard. 

“I have to go.” 

“That’s ok.”

I’m disgruntled to walk away from him but the promise of seeing him the following day eases the unhappiness weighting on my shoulders.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arty Harry is my weakness.

There’s an old lady that lives at the end of our road. Dorothy. She’s a little decrepit and has to walk with the aid of a zimmer-frame. But she’s still got her marbles, and it seems I’m her favourite among the neighbours because I’m always the one she wants to chat to. I think she’s lonely, her fluffy grey cat gives company but lacks the vocal interaction she often goes days without. I don’t mind talking to her, she’s sweet and always has a crinkly smile on her face. When the weather is nice, I’ll attend to her back garden, pulling up weeds and planting flowers. Dorothy will sit in the foldout chair up on the patio and we’ll talk about her young romances, road trips and her fondness for the equally crinkly old man that lives at number twelve. 

Currently I’m sat in her living room, filling up on the plate of biscuits she’s wheeled in on a tray. She likes to feed me up, insisting that boys like girls with fuller figures. I’m unconvinced on such a generalisation, cramming everyone into a certain box; everyone is different but I’m not one to complain, especially if there are chocolate digestives involved. I politely wipe the crumbs from my mouth with the back of my hand as Dorothy continues to sigh in discontent.

“It’s boring, don’t you think?” she gestures a withered hand to the walls. 

She’s sat in her armchair to the side of me, Jasper the cat curled up upon her lap. 

“I mean, maybe it could do with sproosing up a bit…”

The wallpaper is a musky brown, and I don’t know whether it reflects the original colour, or if it has become worn and beaten with age. The top corners of the paper are peeling slightly from the wall in defeat as though it’s had enough of being hung for so long. The room is kept clean and tidy but the décor is little to be desired.

“I don’t want to live in a cave anymore; I want it to have some life.”

Her cardigan is tucked tightly around her small body, and despite her age, her hair is thick, mostly white and streaked with grey.

“We could get some pictures. Or maybe I could go into town and get some colour swatches for you to look at.”

My smile is reciprocated and Dorothy lightly pats my hand in appreciation. The winkles on her face are crinkled in joy, enjoying the company of someone that can inject some youth into the conversation. She’s been more than vocal about her distaste of discussion topics recycled at a number of her tea and knitting club meetings. There’s not much diversity. 

“That’s a lovely idea, Annabelle,” she pauses, “but anyway tell me, how many boys do you have chasing after you?”

“None,” I laugh.

It’s funny how your parents, grandparents, relatives and friends all tell you how pretty you are. You should be beating them off with a stick, Dorothy once said. But in reality you’re just washed in with the rest of all the ordinary looking people. My mum has told me I have a nice smile, but they’re supposed to say that, aren’t they?

“No-one at all?”

Dorothy’s question conjures up the image of my sketching boy. He’s far from chasing after me; like putting an unwilling participant into a mystery race. He would have no idea what’s beyond the red tape at the finish line; and I fear if he was blessed with the information, he would knowingly get himself disqualified.

“There’s a boy in my history class.” 

Her smile brightens, shifting in order to absorb the exciting information. She loves to chat about what I’m up to, genuinely interested in my life. 

“What’s his name?”

The cat lifts his head, a sign that the ceased stroking is needed once more. Dorothy lays the hand on him, tracing his back.

“Harry.”

***

The open evening has been quite busy and I’ve lost track of how many potential students I’ve chatted with. Parents seemed to be invested in what the individual course had to offer, asking about topics, tutors, what kind of books they’d need to buy. Their children, on the other hand, took a much keener interest in the trips involved. I’m pretty sure I sold the geography course to about four different teenagers by mentioning the educational trip to Italy. 

I’d offered to help pack away but my tutor waved me off as it’s already ten past eight. My fingers tap away at my phone as I amble down the steps from the first floor. Some of the lights have been shut off and it’s odd to see the college building in partial darkness. It’s normally bustling with late students racing to their next class. 

I receive an unpunctuated text back from my mum saying she’ll be outside in about fifteen minutes to pick me up. It’s fine, I don’t mind waiting as I know Beth is still in the sociology department clearing up. That’s where I head, taking advantage of empty corridors and almost skating down them. I hesitate momentarily at the entrance to the art block. Of all the people that attend college, art students are the ones with the most alternative style. It’s only when walking past this area of the building that you see paint-splattered dungarees, floor length floating skirts, jackets with sewn on embroidered badges. But it’s the hairstyles that cause even more of a stir, a rainbow of colours that brighten cold Autumn days to give you a sprinkling of Summer thoughts. 

I peer into the one of the rooms, hoping to see just that, but my eyes gravitate to something even more intriguing. There’s scatterings of collages, sculptures and drawings all around the room. The ceiling is decorated with abstract objects hung with clear fishing wire and pieces of art lay to dry on a rack over by the window. I’ve never spent much time here and now I wish I had. It’s a mind boggling escape of art work their creators have become lost in. I dance my eyes over work set out for prospective students to nose through.  
Weaving through the maze of temporary display boards I find a collection that is the catalyst for intrepid feelings of awe. 

“Annabelle?”

I clutch an excess of jumper folds upon my chest and stow the curse ready to spill from my mouth in shock. Harry’s strolling towards me, ink smudged on his hands and face speckled with colourful paint freckles. 

“Are you all right?” he asks with a humoured smile.

“Fine thanks, you…I didn’t expect you to pop up. I was just looking around.”

There’s no-one else here, the room is silent as he takes a spot beside me to admire the work I’d come across. I didn’t even know he was helping with the open evening but it makes me glad I reluctantly agreed to attend, too.

“You like this one?” he gestures with a nod. 

“Yeah.”

“What do you like about it?”

I will myself to reign in the part of my brain that’s utterly elated to be stood right next to him. If I was to reach a little further my fingers would brush his hand. 

“The colours, the fact that you still know what it is, but it’s different.”

A dimple prods into his cheek, my silly answer making him smile. I return my consideration back to the forest of trees with leaves painted in blues and greens, dark pinks, pearlescent purples, gold. 

“It’s like they’re in a whole different season that we haven’t discovered yet.”

He hums in contemplation of my answer, wiping his hands on his shirt sleeve. 

“Maybe those are the colours they transform into when no-one is there to see them?”

“That’s an interesting theory,” I remark, turning to look at him.

It’s only then that I spot the patch of much shorter hair, shaved in, up and around his ear. It’s contained to one side but the lack of tumbling locks now displays the small flesh hole in his lobe rather distinctly. 

“Your hair.”

“Oh yeah,” he reaches up, fingers brushing the patch almost self-consciously. “My friend’s taking a hairdressing course, needed a model.”

Harry’s hand falls away and my smile perks up. 

“It looks good,” I speak honestly.

In the process of rolling up his cuffs he laughs a little, displaying the white of his teeth. It’s not a sight I’ve seen often, so I make the most of it. 

“Thanks. My mum’s going to hate it.”

I’m not convinced a temporary haircut will have much of an impact on his mother’s wellbeing. She’s probably far more concerned with the permanent ink trails of tattoos penned into her boy’s skin. I don’t speak my thoughts though. 

“They’re mine, by the way,” Harry motions a colourful hand. “This board is my work.”

I’m sparked with memories of the leaf Harry had picked up outside; the one both of us witnessed fall to earth. The delicate fiery ember is pinned to the board by the side of the painting as some sort of reference. Of course it’s his. 

“It’s really pretty.”

Instead of coy “thank you”, I’m deliberated with thoughtful eyes. A rosy pink is beginning to tingle on my cheeks under his gentle scrutiny. Before I have the chance to say something which will probably cause embarrassment, he saves me. 

“Hey, come with me.”

I follow obediently after him as if we’re tethered. I certainly don’t laugh when Harry stumbles like Bambi over a chair leg, nor do I stupidly smile when he sheepishly looks back to me. We arrive at the back of the room, sink to the right, supply cupboard to the left and a work station snugly wedged in the middle. There’s barely enough wriggle room for the both of us as I stand in front with Harry partially behind. Small pots of ocean born colours are dotted around a large page. They’re the same shades speckled on his cheeks.

“What is it?” I ask.

I don’t dare touch it in fear of destroying whatever he’s been working on. A mumbled apology is given when he leans forward and touches my side. I don’t mind. A paint stained toothbrush is taken in hand.

“You’ve not been brushing your teeth with that, have you?”

“No,” he breathily laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s new.”

The bathroom utensil is offered and I have no idea what’s expected of me. I take the odd gift with a clearly puzzled expression before Harry hands me a large shirt off a peg to keep my clothes clean. 

“Dip into the green,” he instructs. 

With his overshadowing guidance, I dab the bristles into the paint and wait. The paper in front of us is already littered with speckles of colour and some larger splats. I have an inkling as to what we’re doing and it’s confirmed when Harry asks me to flick. The green flies, vibrantly impacting uncovered patches of white. I repeat the process, each time washing the brush and drying it before dipping into turquoise, blue, silver. It’s enjoyable, paint wet fingers and the freedom of straying outside the lines. I wonder if Harry feels the same stretch of boundaries when mingling with art supplies. There’s no guidelines, no essay titles, no bullet point arguments. Harry laughs as I accidently shower us in colour – I’m paint speckled just like him.

“Hang on.”

I place the brush down on the side as if finally being caught by the authorities after a shooting showdown. Harry’s careful fingers pick at part of the paper, before peeling away a stencil I hadn’t seen prior. It’s like a magic trick and when it’s separated from the canvas all I can do is smile.

“She’s beautiful,” I compliment slightly dumfounded.

“She’s my mermaid.”

The affection in his voice is hugely endearing and I’m suddenly very grateful I’m here. The revealed silhouette of the sea creature has her head tilted upwards. She’s small, engulfed by the ocean flecks around her. One arm is aloft, adamant in reaching the top of the paper, or perhaps the surface. Her chest and hips are curved, leading down to a tail with a billowy fan. It was an effortless piece to make but it’s strangely wonderful to see her swimming amongst Harry’s colourful creation. 

It’s a simple thought that comes to mind and has my mouth moving before I can comprehend. 

“I have a favour to ask you,” I blurt. 

It’s at that moment my phone produces an untimely buzz and I pull it out to read, _I’m outside xx._ It’s my mum.

“I have a favour to ask you tomorrow,” I correct myself. 

“Ok.”

***

“So, we’re going to your house?” Harry asks, pulling up the hood to his parker. 

We’ve had to stop off at the bike shelter to pick up his BMX. I’d met him outside the art block before he’d handed me a cardboard tube with the recently dried mermaid rolled up inside. He had said he wanted me to keep it and my heart may have imploded in my chest. 

“Oh no, it’s a friend’s house, it’s down the road from where I live - this sounds a bit dodgy, doesn’t it?”

I hitch up the straps of my rucksack, readjusting my hat to prevent my nose from getting rained on. 

“Not at all, as long as this isn’t a ploy to lure me away, get me on my own and kill me,” he casually speaks, unlocking the chain.

“I-I wouldn’t do that.”

Oh gosh, he thinks I’m a freak. He’s going to spread it around that I’m the weird one who just watches people for two years before talking to them. 

“I know, I was just kidding,” he lightly laughs, “I trust you.”

***

We’re next in line for the bus after a winding queue of drenched students. Everyone has the look of chill about them, pink cheeks and reddened nose. We’re still very much in Autumn, leaves still ablaze on the trees, but the weather has thrown cold blasts of precipitation our way and I hate it. 

“Do you have any more change? I think I’m short 38p.”

Harry’s been riffling around in his pocket for the past couple of minutes. The search for money has been made all the more difficult with him having to hold the handle bar to his bike. His converse look a little damp, although he’s yet to complain. 

“Of course.”

I hand him over two twenty pence coins before climbing onto the bus. The back always fills up first, people keen to sit above the engine and thaw out. There’s a woman with a buggy opposite us, the little girl bundled up in hat, scarf and gloves. She looks like a baby doll. Harry and I take the fold down seats running parallel to the bus’s windows. He rests the bikes against our knees, our feet anchoring the wheels. 

“I think you’d be too big.”

“For what?” he turns to address me with a raised brow.

 _Yes, Annabelle, for what?_ My face glows as though I’ve bathed in the sun for hours. Our conversation before had flowed perfectly in my mind, linking it together through my own thoughts. Saying it out loud and out of context has a whole different, slightly crude, meaning to it. Bloody hell, he probably thinks I was imagining us naked. Together. 

“Oh gosh, not if we - I mean if I was going to kill you.”

The explanation is no better than the conclusion I assume he came to himself previously.

“Yeah?”

I’m odd, I know he thinks I’m odd. But it surprises me when he snorts and I pray that he’s just as dorkish as me. The way he fondly looks at me reminds me of how you indulge a child that tries to convince you the moon is made out of cheese, because they’d seen it on Wallace and Gromit. 

“I wouldn’t be able to move the body, you’d be too big for my mum’s car boot.”

Along with all the hockey kit, there’s barely enough room for me in the car, let alone the body of a murder victim. _Why on earth are we having this conversation?_

“I’ll count myself lucky then.”

***

It’s still raining as we depart from the bus and even the short walk to my road saturates the wool of my hat. It’s like wearing a wet sheep upon my head. Harry’s dressed much more appropriately, the strings of his hood pulled tight to make him look like an Eskimo. Our conversation on the bus had predictably led to discussion on the best ways to kill a person without getting caught. Harry’s best idea was pushing them into the wet cement foundations of a building, which I countered with shark attack. 

All joking aside I’m now stood on the doorstep. I ring the bell twice before Dorothy appears with Jasper curling in and out of her legs. She balances her weight upon the walking-frame, genuine happiness displayed through a crinkly smile. A purple, knitted cardigan is wrapped tightly around her and she goes to usher me in from the cold.

“I brought him here,” I gush in a frantic mess of words before she can greet me. 

The glasses that swing from a chain around her neck are placed on her nose. It’s as if she’s searching for an imaginary friend I’ve just invented. When she can’t spot them I’m her next port of call. 

“Who? Who did you bring, Annabelle?”

There’s worry embedded in her voice. I don’t want to burden her with concern. 

“Harry.”

The once fretful pull of her eyebrows softens upon recognising his name. 

“The one you like to watch as he draws.”

“Yes, yes him,” I flutter. “But you mustn’t tell him that.”

I lick at my chapped lips and wrench the wet sheep from my head. Jasper is less than pleased to be dripped on when I shake out my hat, scurrying back inside. I quickly tease out my damp hair and push it back from my face. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t. Where is he?”

She peers around me to try and spot him. 

“He’s on the phone at the moment,” I seek him out, “over there.”

I point to where Harry has his bike leaning against the lamppost. He takes his hood down, frustrated at fighting with it to take his call. His hair is mostly dry, but getting wetter by the second before he shoves the phone into his pocket. My little wave guides him over. 

“Oh, isn’t he beautiful,” Dorothy admires. 

I want to tell her that I’m fully aware of just how appealing he is, how I’ve been conscious of the incandescent beauty of him for the past two years, that if I could draw, he’d be the one to fill up my scrapbook. But I don’t tell her any of that because he’s stood in front of us. 

“This is your friend?”

The question isn’t accusing, it’s in curious surprise. And by the way Dorothy and I are grinning at him he can’t really escape the oddity of the situation. I hum in confirmation. 

“Harry, this is Dorothy,” I exchange names, “Dorothy, Harry.”

The flicking back and forth of his eyes is barely noticeable, from Dorothy to me and then to Dorothy once more.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” he sincerely speaks before lightly taking her hand and leaning in to kiss her cheek.

I’m in complete awe, Dorothy has only known Harry for a matter of seconds and she’s already got more action that I could ever dream. She seems a little stunned with his polite manners, his height, curly hair, bright smile. By the way she softly laughs it’s obvious she’s just as taken with him as I am. 

“He can stay,” she teasingly whispers in a not to safely kept secret. “Come in, come in.”

I tell Harry he can leave his bike in closed off porch as we watch Dorothy do a three-point-turn in the hallway with her walking frame. He follows my lead of peeling from my outdoor clothes and toeing off the feeling of walking in puddles. I’d worn a pair of socks over my tights to keep my feet from succumbing to the cold, a patterned jumper over my dress with a vest underneath. God knows what I’ll be like when the year ticks ‘round to Winter. Harry must have a constant biting chill in his knees, the rips exposing skin and warmth. 

“Would you like some tea, Harry?” Dorothy calls from the kitchen. 

“Yes please, just milk.”

She’s well accustomed to my usual order of hot orange squash so I make myself at home in her living room. As expected, Jasper is sulking in front of the fire; although I do receive a contented purr after lightly scratching him behind the ear. Dorothy refers to him as a high maintenance cat, but refuses to accept it’s because she’s spoilt him. 

I help Dorothy in with the drinks and stifle a giggle as she badgers Harry multiple times with the offer of biscuits. I mentally will him to accept, otherwise he’ll be bombarded with a variety of cake instead, and then sandwiches, and if he’s lucky, angel delight. 

“Annabelle tells me you like your art.”

Harry and I share the small sofa across for her. It’s a little snug and does wonders for rejuvenating the warmth I lost in my fingers and toes. Our knees knock as he leans forward to collect his mug from the coffee table. 

“Yeah, it’s what I want to do. I want to inspire people with my work, bring a bit more colourful life to the world.”

_You can inspire me any time you like._

“Annabelle wants to be a landscape gardener. You could inspire people together.”

 _Bloody hell._ Dorothy is looking at me like she’s doing me a favour. But the push she thinks I need is unwanted, I’d much rather marvel at him from a safe distance. At least for a little while, until I can pluck up the courage to tell him he’s the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen. 

Harry sips his tea, peeking at me over the rim. _Oh gosh, please don’t be a mind reader, please don’t be a mind reader._

“Well, I’m not very good. I think I need more practise, a bigger area to cultivate,” I brush off. 

“Rubbish!” Dorothy replies in offence. “You should see my garden in the Spring and Summer, it’s like wonderland.”

It’s hardly a wonderland. You just have to have a gardening head on your shoulders, decide how best to use the space, what colours complement each other, be observant of light and pick out the perfect place for a garden seat. I like to watch things grow, to nurture them. 

“Landscape gardener or hockey player.”

Harry picks the crumbs from his jumper before Jasper can pounce on him. 

“You play hockey?”

“Yeah, I’m on the team, but we don’t practise much in the cold weather, it’s a bit muddy. We have to wait for the boys to get out of the sports hall.”

Once kitted up, you’d be surprised how scary a group of girls can be, clad with hockey sticks and mouth guards. The boys pack up their football training rather quickly when we emerge from the changing rooms. 

“You should see the bruises she comes home with, you’d think those girls were purposefully trying to take the legs out from underneath her.”

A flustered swirl of heat tugs in my stomach as Harry’s eyes inadvertently coast over my legs. My toes curl on the carpet and he presents that silly sheepish smile once more.

***

There was no deciding moment of ease, just an easy slip from sofa to floor. The puddle splashes on Harry’s jeans have completely dried and my face feels ember warm in front of the fireplace. I’ve discovered that his laugh can range from musical giggling to a dorkish outburst, which has him slap a palm over his mouth in embarrassment. Another cup of tea and we’ve finally gotten around to the root of the favour. 

“We were thinking about changing things around a little in here,” Dorothy explains.

Her use of “we” makes me smile, as though I’m fully included in her home and the goings on inside it. Harry’s nibbling on another biscuit whilst nodding in understanding. 

“Don’t feel obligated because it was just an idea, you don’t have to do anything,” I continue. “But we were thinking maybe you’d like to do it.”

I smile at him as he processes the information. I’d dropped into discuss it with Dorothy the night before. She’d thought it was a lovely idea, and this way she would have a Summer garden in her living room the whole year around. It’s not much to look at four blank walls. He scans the room before coming back to me.

“What do you mean?”

I wipe the nervous sweat from my palms to the fan of my dress. It’s never felt so strangely satisfying to hold a person’s attention. 

“Well, it would just be a feature wall, this one,” I gesture. “You’d have free reign on colour and design, whatever you want.”

“I just want something different to give the room a bit of life,” Dorothy adds.

She sits nursing her cup and saucer with an encouraging smile. 

“We’d pay you for your time and materials.”

It’s a long moment to wait as Harry gently squeezes his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. His thoughtful blinks are all I can hear as he takes another lengthy glance around the room. The time he takes for assessment pokes at the doubts in my mind. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. He probably doesn’t have the time to take on a project. 

“I can come Mondays and Thursdays,” Harry interrupts my mind’s ramblings. 

“I’m sorry, it was a bad – what?”

I must look a bit baffled because he then explains further. 

“I’m free on Mondays after college and I have a day off on Thursday.”

My smile blossoms into a carefree grin. 

“It’s a yes?”

“I’d love to, the room has potential.”

I look brightly to Dorothy who’s wriggling to try and escape the armchair. She gives up, instead coaxing Harry over to her for a kiss on the cheek. I can hear him laughing as she takes his face in her arthritic hands before praising him, “what a wonderful boy you are.”

It’s minutes later that Harry glances at the time. 

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” he states hurriedly whilst rising from the carpet.

He’s all baby giraffe legs as he scrambles to the hall and wrenches on his slightly soggy converse. I follow, only for him to nearly knock me flat whilst slinging his bag on. It must be something important. 

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, I’m just a bit late.”

I don’t ask who or what needs his attendance because he’s checking his phone. It’s rammed into the pocket of his jeans before he makes a cack-handed performance of zipping up his coat. 

“My mum’s car is just down the road, do you need me to give you a lift?”

“Oh, no thank you,” he politely refuses. 

He peeks his head into the living room where Dorothy is now petting a sleepy Jasper. It’s with grandmotherly fondness she looks up to him as he speaks.

“Thank you for having me. I’ll start sketching out some designs for the wall and we can go through colours.”

I’m not sure of her reply because I’m clearing his exit for rapid departure. He’s appreciative as I tilt the bike to him and open the outside door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The butterflies in my stomach are exhausted and partially relieved because all they’ve done for the past two hours is hurtle themselves at my insides. The smile he gives me almost finishes them off. 

“I’ll be there.”


End file.
